June 2, 2018
“Mount Hakkōda (八甲田山)” is a volcanic range that encompasses more than a dozen mountain peaks. For hyakumeizan purposes, however, it counts as only one—and the one is Mount Ōdake (1,585 meters), the highest peak in the Hakkōda range. To get there by the normal route, a hiker must also climb up and over (and down, and up, and over) Mount Akakura (1,548 meters) and Mount Ido (1,550 meters). Since my goal was to climb the hyakumeizan, I couldn’t count Ido or Akakura toward my 100 summits, but that didn’t change the fact that I had to climb them.
I took a bus from Aomori City to the lower gondola station on Hakkōda. On the way, I struggled once again with my choice to take the lift. As I stared out the window, feeling guilty, Christopher texted me to check my progress.
“Made it up Iwaki, and heading for Hakkōda,” I texted back. “Still concerned people will think I cheated because I took the gondola.”
“Doesn’t matter what anyone thinks,” he replied. “This is your journey. The mountains have no rules but the ones you impose.”
He was right. What’s more, most hikers used the gondolas.
Why did I still feel inclined to take the hard way?
I didn’t undertake the hyakumeizan as a feat of strength. They weren’t technically difficult mountains, and fighting cancer had proven more about my strength than mountains ever could. I came to Japan to break away from “safe,” to face my fears, and to accomplish something I spent decades believing I could never do.
I looked at Christopher’s text again. “No rules but the ones you impose.”
The rule I had imposed was “You Have to Take the Lift.”
* * *
The upper gondola station on Mount Hakkōda sits at the edge of an alpine plateau, at the entrance to a wetlands park. An elevated boardwalk made of wooden planks runs through the wetland area, preventing hikers from trampling on the delicate plants and offering unimpeded views of snowcapped peaks in all directions.
The morning sun felt warm on my face, but the breeze still carried a winter chill, picked up as it crossed the beds of snow that remained on many of the mountains. At the far end of the wetland park, the boardwalk disappeared beneath a blanket of snow the size of a football field and two feet deep. Pink tape flashes fluttered on the trees to mark the boot-churned route. Grateful for my hiking poles and boots, I followed the prints across the snow, which made a satisfying crunch beneath my feet.
All too soon, I left the snow behind and began a long, steep climb up the seemingly countless earthen steps that led to the summit of Mount Akakura. A forest of pine trees mixed with sasa—dense, broad-leafed bamboo—grew on both sides of the narrow trail.
The trees grew shorter as I climbed, until I hiked past stunted shrubs whose tops were barely shoulder-high. I stopped to look across them. On the far side of Hakkōda’s peaks, more snowcapped mountains rose in saw-toothed lines, like the spines of sleeping dragons. I tried to memorize each detail, from the songs of cuckoos calling in the twisted pines to the spicy scent of the air and the way the sunlight made the fields of snow glow brightly against the deep green mountainsides.
Winds howled across the summit of Mount Akakura like angry spirits. I clutched my cap, concerned the gusts would blow it off, and stopped just long enough to take a photo with the summit marker before I hurried on. The winds abated as I reached the relative safety of the trail that connected Mount Akakura with neighboring Mount Ido.
On top of Ido, I added a stone to the summit cairn on behalf of everyone who felt as trapped in their lives as I had felt in the life I’d left behind. I hadn’t broken free completely yet, myself, but I’d begun the journey. I wished everyone could have the chance to break their shackles too.
The deep-green, snowcapped peaks beyond Ido’s crater made me feel as if someone had dropped me into The Sound of Music. I had known Japan had Alps, but I hadn’t expected them to look so . . . alpine. I even started singing as I hiked along the trail.
The music stopped abruptly when I rounded the crater rim and saw the steep descent ahead and the steeper climb beyond it. Far below, a mountain hut nestled in a saddle between Mount Ido and Mount Ōdake. To its left, the final stretch of trail ascended along the side of a massive snowfield on Ōdake’s upper slope.
You’ll never make it there and back in time to catch the gondola.
I reminded myself the trail was a loop and that the return was shorter than the approach across the summits. Even so, it wasn’t reassuring. I hurried down to the mountain hut and sat outside it on a wooden bench to eat my lunch in a tiny clearing that proved blessedly free of Biting Things (Enormous, Winged, or otherwise).
While eating, I watched a group of hikers moving slowly toward Ōdake’s summit. It dawned on me, equally slowly, that they weren’t climbing up the side of the giant snowfield. They were hiking directly up the impossibly steep, snow-covered face.
A second set of hikers lurched and skidded down the slippery slope. One woman fell and tumbled several meters down the mountainside before she used a pole to self-arrest.
You can’t climb that. You will fall. You’ll slide the length of the slope and hit a tree and break a leg—or worse.
The loop trail back to the gondola ran past the benches to my right, safely away from Ōdake’s snowy flank. I considered ending the climb right there and abandoning the summit altogether. I did not believe I could get up that snowy slope, let alone back down.
I wanted to cry. I had come so far, and this mountain was supposed to be an easy one.
It would be easy in midsummer, when the snow was gone. I could come back and climb it then—and decided I would, if I needed to, but also decided to take a closer look before I called it quits.
The slope was even scarier up close.
The snow was more than four feet deep and steeper than it looked from the mountain hut. Admittedly, a dozen hikers were moving up and down the face with no apparent trouble—even the woman I saw fall appeared unhurt—but that didn’t mean I could do it without injury.
I avoided just this kind of situation at all costs. As a child, I wore a motorcycle helmet during horseback riding lessons, because my dad said equestrian helmets weren’t safe. The fear his attitude inspired made me switch from stadium jumping to dressage because I lost my nerve to ride over fences higher than three feet.
All my life, my fears had been greater than my courage.
My vision blurred as my eyes filled up with tears.
I had come to climb. I wanted to succeed. And so, with everything inside me screaming that I must turn back, I raised my boot and stepped onto the snow.
The midday sun had melted the upper inch of the snow to slush, but there was hard-packed snow beneath. I took a second step and then a third. I moved up slowly, using my hiking poles for balance.
Twenty yards from the bottom, my foot slipped out from under me. I panicked, clutched my poles, and gasped for breath as I regained my balance.
I had no crampons, no ice axe, no experience climbing snow.
This is scarier than cancer.
I blinked. My inner voice was right.
Cancer, I could fight. A person cannot fight a mountain.
You did not come to fight, I reminded myself. You came to find your courage and reclaim your life.
I took a cautious step.
You trained for this.
I took another step.
You’re going to die,